Sweet and Sour
by Harper Bell
Summary: A ghoul has come to Beacon Hills, or so Stiles thinks. While waiting for Scott to show up so they can hunt the creature down, he gets rescued by a certain Alpha werewolf and suddenly finds himself in a compromising position.


**_Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or any of its wonderful characters and have not written this for any type of profit._**

**A/N: Hey, all. This is my first ever attempt at a Sterek/Teen Wolf fanfic. Right now it's a standalone, but I'm considering continuing it. Thanks to qhuinn and Terry for the beta job. Any remaining mistakes are my own. I tried to keep it as in character as possible, so hopefully it turned out. Feedback welcome. :)**

**This is canon, but working under the assumption that other creatures of the night might be showing up in Beacon Hills in the future. Mild spoilers for seasons 1-2.**

**Word count: 2834 **

Stiles Stilinski was seriously thinking about killing someone. Well, not really. As a general rule, he tried not to kill things. Sure, he'd considered killing Jackson—briefly—and maybe Derek a time or two, but, c'mon, who wouldn't? That guy could test the patience of a saint. And Stiles was no saint, even if he typically tried to do the right thing.

That was the reason he was out in the middle of the woods, waiting for Scott. It seemed he did a lot of that—waiting for Scott, looking for Scott, trying to get a hold of Scott. Now that Scott and Allison were broken up (again), he'd thought Scott would be a little bit better about being where he said he would be. Obviously not. Scott was an hour late, and there Stiles was, sitting on a fallen tree trunk and freezing his butt off on a night three days shy of the full moon.

Trouble was amiss. Not just from the mysterious Alpha pack that had abruptly descended on them. _More_ trouble. Beacon Hills had been attracting it in spades lately. Why all these creatures of the night kept choosing a sleepy little town in northern California for their shenanigans, Stiles really had no clue. Something in the water, maybe. First werewolves, then the kanima, and now ghouls. Maybe after graduation, he should move to Vegas.

No, scratch that. With Stiles's luck, he'd probably discover that Satan himself was running that town. That was the very last thing he needed.

But ghouls? _Seriously?_ At least they thought that was what they were dealing with. Graves were being dug up, kids were disappearing, dead people were showing up all over the place—half-eaten. Stiles almost wanted the stupid kanima back. Almost.

"Come on, Scott." Stiles glanced at his cellphone and sighed wearily. His last three texts to Scott had gone unanswered. Where was he? And why wasn't he where he was _supposed_ to be? They had a ghoul to hunt down, and Stiles wasn't exactly comfortable hanging out near a centuries-old graveyard by himself with some crazed, flesh-eating _thing_ on the loose. There was a reason they'd chosen this place, right? Ghouls were supposed to dwell in cemeteries like these—hidden, abandoned, creepy as hell … far away from prying eyes and ears. Somewhere they could munch on the corpses of their victims without the fear of being disturbed—or drag off their still living victims to murder them in some brutal, hideous, disgusting fashion.

Stiles cringed. Because it would be brutal and hideous and probably all sorts of gruesome, of that he was sure. That was just how these things worked. No sending someone off into that soft and gentle night. There'd be gore and screaming and sharp teeth and _chewing_.

_Ugh. Dammit, Scott, where—_

The snap of a twig jerked Stiles out of his thoughts and sent him flailing over backward into a pile of slick, damp leaves. He scrambled to his feet, slipping and searching wildly for the bat he'd brought with. Not that he knew how much good it would do against a ghoul, but it was better than being caught empty-handed. Of course, he _had_ hoped his best friend would be around to go all badass werewolf and help him out if said ghoul actually showed up.

"Scott?" he called out, fingers curving around the handle of the bat. Naturally, there was no answer. Unsurprising, really. Scott wouldn't be sneaking up on him. _Don't be dumb, Stiles._ "Derek?" he tried instead. Why not? Derek had the unsettling habit of loitering in random places like the woods after midnight or showing up when least expected, all broody and permanently pissed off. Sure, it was a little, um, stalkery, if Stiles were being honest, but he'd much prefer Derek acting the part of Creepy McCreeperson as opposed to the other thing. Or, God forbid, the damn Alpha pack, which would likely rip him to shreds just as easily as the ghoul would.

Still no answer. So, it wasn't Derek either. He would have shown himself and probably punched Stiles or slammed him into a tree or something by now. No Derek, then. And that left … well, that left a lot of other distinctly unpleasant possibilities.

Stiles swallowed and tightened his grip on the bat. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. Maybe he should run instead of trying to face it alone.

Another snap, this one louder, and coming from a different direction. More than one thing then. Yeah. Running would be good. Running would be _awesome_.

So he did just that, turning on his heel and starting in the direction of his Jeep.

"I swear to God," he muttered to himself as he ran, "if I get killed and eaten by some stupid friggin' ghoul, I'm going to come back from the dead and haunt Scott till the end of his days. Then I'll haunt his children, and his children's children, and their—"

Something struck his back, cutting him off mid-sentence, and sending him sprawling. He hit the ground hard, the air in his lungs expelling in a violent _whoosh_. Before he could get his bearings, whatever had knocked him down was on top of him, pressing his face into damp soil and half-decayed leaves, sharp claws digging into his nape just above the collar of his jacket.

Stiles trembled as rank breath washed across his ear. This was it. He was about to die there in the woods, some folklore creature's midnight snack, and his dad would have lost not only a wife but a son as well. _Oh, hell no. Not happening._ The very thought propelled Stiles into action and he began to struggle, hands feeling around for the bat he must have dropped somewhere nearby.

"Get off me," he yelled. "I'll kick your ghoul ass!"

The thing above him growled and put more weight on his back, stilling his movements. The claws at his nape dug in deeper, finally starting to break the skin.

Stiles winced at the sharp slice of pain. He risked moving his right hand, just to see what the creature would do, and flinched when its grip tightened even further.

Dammit. He was going to kill Scott the next time he saw him. _Kill._

It was obvious now the thing was too strong for him to fight off. He had only one real option left—reasoning with it.

"Hey," he said, struggling to keep his voice as friendly as possible. It was hard when he was sure the thing would probably start gnawing on him at any moment. "Just FYI, I won't make a very good meal, okay? I'm not even 150 pounds soaking wet. There's not very much meat on me and what's there is stringy, you know? Tough to chew. Eating me would be like eating beef jerky when you could have filet mignon instead. Trust me on this. I really—_oof_."

Suddenly the weight of the ghoul vanished and Stiles was sent rolling, coming to an abrupt, jarring stop when his stomach made contact with the trunk of a tree. A cacophony of mayhem and roaring was coming from behind him, but instead of feeling scared, Stiles could only breathe a sigh of relief. He didn't even have to look to know what was happening. He'd been witness to enough werewolf battles to recognize the sound of one by now. Finally, Scott had shown up.

_It's about effing time._

There was a final roar and a crash and then silence descended, oppressive and unnerving after all that commotion. Slow, purposeful footsteps approached Stiles where he lay trying to stop his head from spinning. He opened his eyes when he felt someone standing beside him, expecting to see Scott, looking wolfy and abashed at being late and nearly letting his best friend get killed. Instead, it was Derek.

_Oh._

Stiles tried to get himself into a sitting position, but found he didn't have the strength to manage it.

Derek eyed him impassively. He was dressed in his usual black, and apparently, no worse for the wear despite his fight with the ghoul. Or at least that was what Stiles assumed it had been. "Why were you out here alone?" Derek asked. "That thing could have killed you."

Sore and dizzy as he was, Stiles still managed to scrounge up some sarcasm. "Thank you, Captain Obvious. Tell me something I don't know, will you? Scott was supposed to be meeting me."

Derek leaned down and grabbed his arm, pulling Stiles to his feet with lots of unnecessary force. Typical Derek. "You were stupid. You should have waited for him and come together."

"Jeez, rip my arm off, why don't you? Have a little care with the merchandise." Stiles tried to wrench himself away only to be struck by a wave of dizziness so powerful it made his vision waver. Instinctively, he grabbed for Derek as he staggered backward. Somehow, between his staggering and Derek being pulled off balance, Stiles wound up on the ground again, this time with his thighs spread and Derek lying awkwardly between them.

Derek's eyes were only inches from his, his mouth close enough that Stiles could feel the warmth of his breath. He expected Derek to tear himself away, punch him, call him an idiot.

Instead, Derek just stared.

Stiles swallowed and licked his lips reflexively. He didn't miss the fact that Derek's gaze finally left his to follow the movement. Stiles wanted to speak, say something to break the stifling, almost excruciating silence, but the moment seemed too important somehow, heavy with a kind of hushed anticipation.

He waited for Derek to move, pull back, to start posturing and acting all Derek-like and macho and annoying. To do _anything_ besides lay there on top of him, all hard and warm and—oh, God, Holy Mother of Christ, Derek was _hard_. Not just hard as in muscular but hard as in … well, _hard_. Stiles could feel the length of him, completely rigid under the fly of his jeans, where Derek's pelvis pressed tightly to his.

Stiles's mouth went dry. This … this was new. There'd always been a fair amount of tension between him and Derek before now, a tension Stiles had told himself was entirely one-sided, just him and his ridiculous attraction to one sour, snarly werewolf who liked to manhandle and intimidate him whenever the opportunity presented itself. The same moody wolf who'd saved Stiles's ass and protected him on more than one occasion—including tonight. The werewolf Stiles had sometimes caught staring at his lips, all focused and intense and _hungry_, much like Derek was doing now.

"It could have killed you," Derek said softly, more of a whisper really.

Stiles nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"I wouldn't have liked that."

Stiles blinked, totally stunned, wondering for a second if he might have misheard. But before he could think of something to say, Derek's mouth was on his, and any thoughts that might have been forming in his brain disintegrated under a sweeping wave of pure, erotic lust.

It was the leftover adrenaline, maybe, that made him part his lips and accept the thrust of Derek's tongue. Or possibly just gratitude, since thanks to Derek, he would live to see another day.

Or maybe, just _maybe_, it was the fact that he'd been needing this, _craving_ it, since the very moment he'd laid eyes on Derek Hale that day in the woods after Scott's attack.

Whatever the reason, Stiles not only accepted Derek's kiss, but returned it as well. He twined his tongue around Derek's, feeling the sharp nip of a fang, which sent a bolt of pleasure straight to his cock.

Stiles moaned into the kiss, rubbing his hardening erection against Derek's, all thoughts of his injuries and Scott and graveyard-dwelling ghouls forgotten under the onslaught of heat and need that surged through his body. He fisted a hand in Derek's leather jacket and reached up with the other to thread his fingers through thick, dark hair. Derek's hands had slipped beneath him, his palms gripping Stiles's ass, holding him tightly in place as Derek kissed him senseless and ground their pelvises together.

It wasn't going to last long. Stiles wanted to reach between them, undo his jeans and then Derek's, spring their cocks free and feel Derek's hard, silky flesh against his own as he jerked them both off at once. He wanted the glide of fingers, friction and pressure, and when it was over, their cum mingling on his skin, warm and slick.

But it was going to happen before he had a chance to do any of that. Derek was grinding against him, rocking, thrusting, straining, and Stiles could already feel the beginning of his orgasm, heat pooling in his balls and drawing them up tight. He spread his legs even wider, kissed Derek harder, bit his lip and sucked his tongue, and when Derek grunted softly into his mouth and the smooth rhythm of his hips was lost to something jerky and erratic, Stiles threw his head back, squeezed his eyes shut, and came.

For a few seconds afterward, it was hard to remember his own name. Derek had stopped moving against him; he had his face buried against Stiles's throat and he was panting roughly. Stiles's own breaths came in short, choppy gasps. It felt so unreal. He could barely believe that Derek had kissed him, let alone all the rest of it. He opened his mouth to speak, not even knowing what it was he wanted to say, but suddenly a familiar voice called his name through the trees, and before Stiles could even react, Derek had pulled away from him.

"Stiles?" Scott called again. Even from a distance, Stiles could tell he sounded a little panicked.

"Over here!" he yelled back. He sat up and made an attempt to brush some of the dirt and dead leaves from his clothes, but it was pretty much a lost cause. That wasn't the only thing lost either. Apparently he'd dropped his cellphone at some point, too.

Stiles groaned. Hopefully, it was still by the tree trunk he'd been sitting on earlier. He didn't even want to think about how much it would cost to replace the dumb thing. On top of that, he was feeling every single scrape and bruise again, and he was intensely aware of the cum cooling in his boxers. He didn't doubt for a moment that Scott would probably smell it on him. And Derek.

_Speaking of which …_ Stiles glanced over his shoulder, searching for Derek, wanting to see how his sour wolf was reacting to Scott's unexpected and untimely arrival. There was no sign of him, though. Derek had disappeared as swiftly as he'd shown up.

Stiles rubbed a hand over his closely-buzzed hair and bit back a sigh. _Great. Just great. _

"Stiles?" Scott appeared through a gap in the trees, his face tense with worry. "God, what happened to you? I've been trying to call you for the last ten minutes. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm all right," Stiles said, extending a hand so Scott could help him to his feet. "A little sore, but I've been through worse. Where were you anyway? "

"Sorry." Guilt overtook Scott's worried expression. "I meant to call earlier, but Isaac showed up at the clinic and—"

Stiles waved a dismissive hand. "Got it. Never mind."

"Sorry, man. It was an emergency, and then they couldn't find Derek and—"

"It's cool," Stiles interrupted. "You can tell me all about it later, once I'm over nearly being eaten. But, on the bright side, I think our ghoul problem has been taken care of."

Scott looked surprised for a moment. Then he tilted his head, his brows furrowed, and gave an audible sniff. "Wait, was Derek here?" he asked. He sniffed again and his eyes widened. "What's that smell? It's … it's kind of—"

"Probably just the ghoul," Stiles said quickly. "I have no idea what that thing might have been getting up to earlier."

Scott lifted his eyebrows, clearly dubious, but thankfully, he let the matter drop. "Well, where is it? The scent is all over. I can't pinpoint it to one spot."

Stiles shrugged, doing his best to act casual. "Not sure. Derek dealt with it." He turned toward where he thought the fighting had happened earlier. "Maybe that way."

"Let's go check it out. We should make sure it's dead."

Stiles knew the thing was toast. No way would Derek have let his guard down enough to do what they'd done otherwise. But he wasn't about to say any of that to Scott.

Instead, he gestured Scott forward and tried for the time being to ignore the stickiness drying in his boxers. "Lead on," he said, and followed as Scott started in the direction he'd indicated.

He and Derek were going to have some talking to do. Later.


End file.
